Love was at a premium –

Jane ran out of supplies.

Father a miner, his life stained by cold dust,

his chest a box of birds,

let go his last persecutory breath.

Mum had three daughters to keep,

all got the message:

love is a ration book.

Jane, the youngest, had least time

for what was left of the crust;

a starveling in love

she sickened for it.

When the strategy was rumbled

she risked the lot

and slit her wrists

In and out of hospital

a lifetime career;

the only way to keep going

and to save Mum.

She hid behind the curtains

when she won the ward prize for a cake.

She could not explain herself.

Paint became her arbiter

picture after picture –

they did not need words.

At long last, she found words:

‘I got into hospital by pretending to be sick,

I got home by pretending to be sane'.